


Templar

by Entropyrose



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Ficlet, M/M, One Shot, Peeping, Period-Typical Homophobia, Short One Shot, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 22:30:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14530641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: Sir Frank Castle, along with his brothers-in-arms, have been charged with safe passage of two monks carrying valuable scrolls. One of the monks catches his eye,  in a *very* profound way.





	Templar

Baths come seldom on the long journeys, rarer still are free-running streams that don't steal a man’s breath away, especially in the winter. Sir Luke points them towards an alcove not far off the beaten path, and there they find a spring with the clearest water Frank believes he has ever seen, the steam rolling up in whisps to lick the frost off the plants. It is late November, and this is a rare treat. 

 

Their convoy is small, especially considering the precious cargo---a group of twelve knights charged with the safe passage of a collection of Scriptures smuggled from the Holy Land. Frank considers the countless lives that were likely taken in their retrieval, and wonders briefly if they were worth the cost. Something doesn't sit right about some drunkard’s ramblings on a five-hundred year old manuscript being prized above human life. Nonetheless, he was hired for his braun, not his brain, so he pulls the cart alongside his armored horse and secures it to the thickest tree. 

 

While Frank has reservations about the cargo’s “wholesomeness”, he feels quite the opposite about its couriers. Two monks, one named Matthew (and the other whose name escapes him) charged with accompanying the scrolls to their destination. In truth, Frank hasn’t bothered to memorize the other monk’s name. The moment Matthew lowered the hood of his cowl and blazing red hair spilled out, the whole world stopped.

 

Frank has been trying his best to mind himself. A Templar Knight is called upon to be as pure of mind as he is in body...and speaking of “body” the shabby gray robe does nothing to hide that slender waist or the bulge of Matthew’s arms as he walks or the fact that his David-esque chest seems to be carved from a single slab of the finest marble… 

 

Frank shakes the thoughts from his head once more as he feels the sash around his middle tighten. God be damned, but he just had to be a bloody monk, now didn’t he? 

 

If Matthew takes any interest in Frank, he certainly doesn’t show it. Though not avowed to silence, Matthew seems to have plenty of interest in talking to his fellow monk-- (what does he call him? Franklin? Yeah, something like that)-- it is exactly the opposite when it comes to conversing with Frank or any of his Knights. Even Luke, by far the most welcoming despite his impressive size, gets little more than one-syllable answers before the redhead retreats back into his hood, prayer beads clutched tight.

 

Frank feels a little more freedom in looking than perhaps he should. Matthew, his red-headed Angel On Earth, is almost certainly blind. The flash of cool-blue, pupilless eyes is just as striking as his red hair. Above them, thick soft lashes like that of a doe’s. Below, gracing his flushing cheekbones a peppering of soft freckles. He has spent sleepless nights thinking up reasons to talk to him.      

 

Frank is not-bad looking himself, not that the shy monk would know it. He takes the opportunity to “accidently” sweep his head over the back of Matthew’s hand as he bends to take his horse’s reins. The feeling of that velvet-soft skin connecting with his war-hardened, scarred cheek gets him instantly hard, even as a deep sense of shame builds in his gut. Matthew pulls back suddenly, murmuring, “apologies”, as if *he* was the usurper. 

 

Frank gulps and nods slowly, playing along with that concept. “It’s quite alright, sire.”

 

Much to his delight, Matthew huffs out a small laugh, as if he is abashed at the honorable title. He slides further away, dismounting from the other side of the horse without another word. Frank’s heart falls. 

 

Luke approaches behind him, a heavy grunt of disapproval rumbling in his chest. “Frank,” he says in warning, snatching the reins and tugging the horse gently his way, blocking the two from sight of the others “Whatever you’re thinking this moment...don’t.” 

 

Frank considers feigning innocence, even though he knows full well that the oldest and dearest of his friends can see right through his shield as if it were as weak as the fog surrounding them. Instead, he pretends to sniff the air, tossing his head in the direction of the water’s edge. “It’s a great spot,” he redirects. “Suppose we should build a fire.”

 

Luke grunts. “Yes. I suppose *we* should.”

 

Frank takes the hint and plucks his hatchet from its leather holster. He and Luke eye each other for a moment before Frank loses the staring contest and huffs off into the woods. 

 

When he returns, the sun is nearly setting. Baths will have to wait till morning. 

 

Luke unstraps the felled deer they’d caught earlier and drags it near the building flames as Frank constructs the spit. Luke unsheathes his knife, picking the animal’s head up by the scruff and piercing its flesh.

 

“Wait!” Both knights look up suddenly as the monks dart across the encampment. They’ve been called upon to guard many a religious person, and from what Frank knows, they are a funny lot--- all with different rituals and idiosyncrasies and rules about what they can and cannot say, wear, do or eat. (With a great emphasis on the “cannot”s.) 

 

Without bothering with an explanation, Matthew folds back one sleeve of his robe and places his hand on the deer’s head. Frank feels compelled to inform him that the deer was already long-gone, but pauses when Matthew dips two fingers in the fresh-flowing blood. He bows his head, drawing the sign of the cross between the deer’s budding antlers and touching the wooden cross of his beads to his mouth. “We thank you for the life you have given that we might live.” 

 

Without another words, he lifts his eyes to the stunned audience, rising to his feet slowly with a peaceful smile. He gives them a slight nod and spins on his heel, returning with his monk-friend to their humble yet functional tent. Frank watches his leave, his mind buzzing with questions. “Did… did he just….”

 

“Thank the deer?,” Luke finishes. He shrugs, muttering “I suppose”, before plunging the knife in the rest of the way. Guts and blood gush out and he scoops out handfuls of the stuff. 

 

The deer is more food than they need, but thanks to the frigid temperatures it should last another few days. After everyone has had their fill, Frank packages the uneaten portions in the hide and submerges it in the stream for a few moments before tying it to his pack. It will turn to a block of ice overnight. He sets his own tent--a large swag of leather with a bed of dry, frozen leaves nearest to the monks’. He tells himself it is for security reasons, and he’s partially right: he doesn’t trust half this squadron any further than he can throw them, and he’s not going to risk these two bearing the brunt of their bad behavior.

 

It gets crazy at night, with very poorly memorized songs being howled at varying pitches over overflowing mugs of ale and two or three disagreements ending in out-and-out brawls where everyone chooses a side. Frank posts his back as close as he dares to the closed flap of the monks’ tent. He and Luke rarely join in the fun. Luke is above such things. He heads to bed without a word and will no doubt be expecting an early start in the morning. 

 

When the last soldier has met his limit and has passed out beside the dwindling fire, Frank crawls a few feet away, under the hide and onto the pile of leaves, punching a folded sack into shape beneath his head. He will close his eyes. For just a few moments…. 

 

He is lifted from a dream by roaming fingers playing with his belt, lifting away the scrap of fabric that protects his middle and dipping between the laces. His breath hitches as the hand finds his center, warm and hard and already throbbing. A pair of satin lips chuckle in his ear. 

 

“Fuck…. Billy!” 

 

“Hello to you as well,” the dark-haired knight teases. 

 

Billy is one night Frank regrets the most: it was years ago, when Billy was just a starry-eyed recruit, before Frank knew how deeply twisted the smaller man truly is. It was only meant as a way to blow off steam: Frank had been excited, maybe even thrilled, that another man shared his secret (one punishable by death, no doubt). It was in the first battle, when he saw Billy wreck merciless havoc on unarmed, peaceful citizens, that he swore him off. Billy was commended for his “valor”. Frank was appalled. 

 

“Your body still craves my touch,” Billy hums approvingly, him thumb flicking over the head of Frank’s swollen cock. 

 

Desire stabbing through him, Frank bites off a groan and forces himself to push the hand away. “Piss off.”

 

Billy tsks dramatically. “You’ve become less of a true man with age, Frank. Unless it's someone else’s ass that currently occupies your dreams?”

 

Frank growls into the makeshift pillow beneath his head as Billy palms his painfully hard bulge. 

 

“The little red-haired vow-taker, perhaps?”

 

“Fuck...nnngg… you.”

 

Billy’s stubble scratches Frank’s throat as his mouth claims Frank’s earlobe, his tongue making wet swirls around the crescent. “Ah, so it *is* him. Continuing your bad habit of plucking unripened fruit from the vine,  Sir Castle? He is a specimen, I’ll give you that. Too bad he’s “married” to his God.” 

 

Frank captures Billy’s hands in a death-lock, spinning them both around in the little makeshift shelter and landing on top of him, pinning him to the ground beneath.  

 

Billy chuckles, spreading his legs in a lewd gesture and rutting his half-hard cock against Frank's through the thick material.  “Good idea,” he taunts. 

 

“I don’t want you,” Frank grinds out, slamming Billy’s head to the ground for full effect. In truth,  he’d kill Billy if he could. It’s no more than the war-whore deserves. 

 

Billy’s expression hardens and he slams back,  connecting his full chest with Frank’s leather armor and wrapping his lanky arms around Frank’s gauntlets. He nearly succeeds in tossing him off.  Frank is satisfied that he’s stopped, however, and he releases Billy with a shove, pulling his tunic straight beneath the layers. 

 

“Ungrateful,” Billy spits. He backs himself out from beneath the scrap of hide, sputtering and indignant, throwing the flap shut as if slamming a door. 

 

Frank falls back into place with a grunt.  The leaves beneath him have shifted into all the wrong spots in the tussle, jabbing into his back and making comfort a near impossibility. For the next several minutes, he fights with his new sleeping surface. Somewhere between his struggle for soft bedding and punching his satchel back into place,  a distant splashing sound alerts him. He wheels around, throwing open the flap. He glances down at the tracks leading from his tent; Billy’s footsteps disappear up the embankment, away from the spring and presumably heading towards his own tent. Good riddance, Frank thinks, before tossing his head the other direction. 

 

A sliver of something Frank has not felt in years---fear---it’s gripping him tightly, constricting his lungs as he hurriedly lifts the entrance to the neighboring tent. 

 

Unlike he and his fellow Knights, the monks are most likely not used to going without the confines of walls. Instead of a simple rag, they have made an actual structure out of thin pieces of wood, complete with a heavy canvas for a covering. It’s inexplicably warm when Frank peers inside, the low light of a flickering candle suspended above two makeshift beds of straw and layers of billowy blankets. One form--slightly chubby and softly snoring--creates a lump in the left bed. The right bed is empty, the blankets carefully folded. Frank’s breath catches. 

 

If anything should happen to the red-headed boy, Frank will fall on his own sword. He is Frank’s *charge*---one that Frank holds himself personally responsible over! He slips out silently before darting down the hill towards the water. The splashing grows louder as he approaches, but it’s methodical, perhaps even leisurely--surely not a sound that any struggle would make.  

 

At last, Frank approaches the little clearing and breathes a sigh of relief when a red-colored head breaches the surface of the water, bathed in moonlight. He stumbles backwards when the rest of him emerges, glittering wet, white smoke rolling off porcelain skin. Suddenly Frank is reminded of the Nymphs from the heathen stories--- otherworldly creatures that were as dangerous as they were beautiful, who dwelled in secret pools for an unlucky adventurer to stumble upon. If ever Frank could choose his death, it would be to die in the arms of such a creature. 

 

And now, one stands before him, waist-deep in the steaming, crystal-clear waters, and he is helpless to look away.

 

It doesn’t take much of a stretch of his imagination to think that perhaps he *is* such a Nymph---parading himself around as a pious and humble Brother Of the Cloth and shedding his constricting, staunch cocoon to ensnare the wayward Believer. All of Frank’s training as a Templar would suggest it. Yet, Frank could not imagine such a pure soul donning such a disguise.

 

He should pray, though it’s been ages. He should retreat into the woods, hit his knees on a patch of grass, tear open his tunic and flog himself for the thoughts now coursing through his mind. He is sinful, disgusting, a heretic! Swallowing deeply, Frank stays. He crouches low among the frosty reeds, his eyes drinking in the sight of him. 

 

Matthew is built but young, his taut muscles reminiscent of years of hard labor and just beginning to fill out into full manhood. He turns, the wet tips of his hair kissing his shoulders as he splashes himself. Frank follows the water as it rolls over the ripples of his statuesque muscles, down the sweet curve of his spine and suddenly he aches at the thought of lathing his tongue down that line, flattening himself to the dip of his back and between the perfect globes of flesh below. 

 

He prays for what he knows he shouldn’t-- prays that the water would dip just a bit lower, that he’d catch a glimpse of what lay between those plump little asscheeks. Frank prays to kiss each freckle, to taste that blemishless skin and worship it with his mouth and his hands. His desire now full-blown, his heart slamming against the walls of his chest, his cock twitches to life inside the constrictive trousers. He growls at himself, tugging mercilessly at the fabric for the slightest bit of relief. Attention in that particular area does quite the opposite: his hand cupping his painful harness only further exciting him.

 

The redhead lets out an indulgent moan, shifting in the water and rotating back towards Frank, his sharp hip-bones catching the moonlight. He shivers, running an elegant hand down his body, flattening all five fingers to his chest and scrubbing absentmindedly. His nipples are as pink as roses and as hard as glass, jutting out in two stiff peaks, and suddenly Frank’s mouth is watering. 

 

He cannot stop wondering what they would taste like, and his mouth drops open at the thought of it-- just getting a good latch and suckling while the boy writhed and wimpered underneath him. 

 

He bites of the groan that escapes from deep within his chest, but it’s too late--even that solitary, minute sound catches the ear of the blind monk. He snaps his head around with a sharp gasp and slips shoulders-deep into the rippling waves. As heat pounds away at Frank’s cheeks and trepidation seizes him, Matthew clutches his shoulders and in a surprisingly authoritative voice says,  “Who’s there?! Show yourself!” 

 

Frank has never been one to retreat. Even in his current guilt, it’s the last thing that occurs to him. He nearly immediately steps out from the brush, carefully hiding his erection. It's second-nature,  he supposes, having never been accustomed to the company of someone who cannot see and who therefore can't detect such things. 

 

“Sorry to have startled you,” he mutters, careful to keep his voice low. He doesn't want to give his fellow knights any reason to wake from their drunken slumber (and,  perhaps a more devious thought--he certainly doesn't want to advertise the goods the monk has been hiding beneath his modest robes). “I noticed you were gone and… “

 

The redhead raises an eyebrow, still covering his chest as if he were a woman. It then dawns on Frank that, given his tightly religious origins, it would make sense that probably no exposure whatsoever would be considered appropriate. “You “noticed”?” Matthew snaps. “What cause was there to go looking?”

 

Frank baulks at this.  Who does this snotty little fire-ant think he is? “Your safety is my responsibility,” he growls, ensuring an adequate amount of gravel in his tone. “You are my sworn duty and as such it is imperative that I know your whereabouts at all times.”

 

Matthew lets out an indignant huff, hugging himself tightly and staring off into the distance.  With a copious helping if sarcasm, he murmurs, “I'm sorry to be such a burden, Sir Knight.”

 

With the flames of his lust still scorching his better judgement, Frank spies the long robe and thick cord loosely hanging from a branch and swipes them up, leveling a glare at Matthew. And waits.

 

As Frank was secretly hoping,  Matthew slides a concerned glance between the scowling fully clothed Knight and his only available form of covering. His pink tongue flicks out across his lips, and a remnant of Frank’s desire stabs through him at the sight of it.  “You  _ will  _ give me my garments.” It sounds more like an uncertain hope than a demand. 

 

“Of course.” Frank chooses a downed log, perching himself on it, rather pleased with himself. “As soon as you get out.”

 

Matthew attempts to hide his shock, but Frank doubts the boy has ventured outside Monastery walls more than a half-dozen times. He lacks the societal walls that naturally build up over a lifetime of hardship and spite. Frank finds that there is something annoyingly refreshing about that. He swallows hard, sinking down until the water begins to touch his chin. “I can’t do that.”

 

Frank snorts. “Well, then I’m afraid we’re at an impasse.”

 

An uncomfortable silence drifts by, with Frank staring boldly into the boy’s ethereal, cloud-blue eyes, before Matthew finally sighs and drops his shoulders. “You must turn your head.” 

 

Frank should honor his request-- the Code would require he honor any reasonable request made of a charge, and it goes doubly for him considering his “impure” thoughts towards the redhead. He decides, since this is the most the boy has spoken to him yet and Frank is uncertain if he ever will again after this night, he’s going to push just a bit harder. 

 

“Must I? We are both men, after all. Using that term loosely in your case, no doubt.” 

 

Matthew scowls and does his best to ignore that last comment, and Frank is pleasantly surprised to discover that shy little monk seems to have a fire inside him no religion can douse. “You know why you must,” Matthew murmurs. 

 

It feels as if an arrow has lodged itself right in Frank’s ribcage. He nearly topples off the log, and hopes Matthew doesn’t take notice when he reaches his free hand down to steady himself. Righteous anger now burned away, Frank lets out a slow breath and nods. There is no point in trying to hide the facts, regardless of the mystery surrounding how the boy managed to pick up on them. “Very well.” 

 

Frank does as he is told--even though, surely, a peak would go unnoticed--and he hears the splashing of the waves come ever closer as the boy climbs out. The robe is lifted gingerly from his arm, and just as he opens his eyes Matthew is fastening the cord around his waist. He lifts the long strand of wooden beads from a pocket deep within the thick wool and stepping into his boots. 

 

“Thank you,” Matthew mutters, and Frank isn’t sure for what. Without another word, the boy climbs the hill effortlessly, as if he could see every stone and branch on the way, icicles already forming on the ends of his hair. 

 

Frank follows, keeping a respectable distance, as the boy ducks into his tent and the burlap tarp closes behind. 

 


End file.
